The coffee shop ambassador

My Dad, Walter, was a paradox (as I suppose most people are). On one hand he spent a great deal of his life being hurt or peeved over a perceived slight or a hurtful remark by one or another individuals in Plainview (where I grew up and Dad lived for over 60 years) -- he could carry these encounters for years, even to the next generation. On the other hand he was Plainview's biggest booster. He thought Plainview's water was the finest in the state -- so too the best high school band, a municipal power system and fire department to rival the finest anywhere, as was the band shell, the golf course -- and on an on. He believed that Plainview was an exceptional place to live, and he was not bashful in letting others know.

Walter's pulpit for singing Plainview's praises was the coffee shop. In his day he operated a bakery, but there was no coffee for the public. Each restaurant was his coffee shop. Walter sold and delivered bread, buns and donuts to the restaurants. Before the sun went down Walter would manage to have a cup of coffee in each of the town's restaurants. Some folks frequent bars for their beverage of choice and to seek out companionship. For Walter it was coffee shops and coffee.

Since he went to work very early in the morning, Walter always had his breakfast uptown, at one of the restaurants. Sometimes he had toast and eggs, sometimes toast and bacon, or toast and oatmeal -- always toast. He disliked and refused to eat pancakes -- pancakes meant that no bread to make toast was sold. This was a prevailing attitude among bakers in that day. One time, the Nebraska Bakers had their convention in Kearney, where my Uncle Dick, the President of the Association, had his bakery. The hotel that was hosting the convention planned to serve a very fancy dish, which featured a biscuit. Dick was infuriated, and threatened to move the convention elsewhere. "What do you mean, serving biscuits to a roomful of bakers?" he railed at the startled chef. The hotel changed its menu, to one that featured an item that the bakers baked and sold.

There is something about sitting at a counter that breaks the ice between strangers. Walter had a knack of visiting with whomever he happened to be sitting. He often said that a stranger was just a friend you hadn't met yet. With Walter that didn't take long. Within minutes they would be deep in conversation, and that fellow would be learning about Plainview (probably more than he cared to know), and also, more than likely, about Walter's farm and cows.

A number of times, when we were traveling out of state, fellows would approach us while we were eating in a restaurant. "Well hi there, Walter, how are things in Plainview? How much did those Charlois calves bring?" It would be a long distance truck driver who had had coffee with Walter at Mary's Café, then taken the tour of "the farm." Many of these chance acquaintances returned in the fall to hunt pheasants on Walter's farm. Of course he assured them that the hunting was the best anywhere. It must have been pretty good because a number of these fellows returned year after year and these friendships flourished.

During his last years in the bakery, before retirement, Dad had driven a bread route, to Osmond, Randolph, Wausau and points in between, the neighboring towns to the east of Plainview. In Wausau he frequently had coffee with the local banker, one Norbert Tiemann (before he became Nebraska's governor). They would thrash over the country's problems over rusks and coffee. (Wausau is a Swedish town, and there, instead of toast, the café cut up Dad's tea rolls, buttered the slices, then toasted them, either plain or with cinnamon sugar, to make rusks. Delicious!)

One time, while Mr. Tiemann was governor, Dad and I were in Lincoln and decided to make a tour of the Capitol. While we were ascending that long outside stairway, on the north side of the building, Gov. Tiemann, with an entourage of six or eight men, was coming down the stairway. When he saw Dad, Gov. Tiemann left his group, saying "I'll catch up with you in a minute." Then, to Dad, "Hi Moneybags. What's the Plainview Chamber of Commerce doing in Lincoln today?" Dad's reply, "How are you, Nobby? I had to come down to make sure you weren't spending the state into bankruptcy." A few more "pleasantries," then a smile, a handshake, a pat on the back, and he bounded off after his group. The whole exchange hardly took a full minute.

In 1968 Maj. General Charles Eisenhart, the much decorated Vice Commander of the 15th Air Force, was killed on a take-off from an airbase in Minot N.D. His funeral was to take place in Culbertson, his hometown. My cousin, Mike Scott, a Warrant Officer at SAC, was in charge of making the arrangements for the funeral and taking care of the military dignitaries that would be attending the funeral. He brought me into his plans and asked me to line up transportation for the dignitaries, from the airport to the Elks Club for lunch, then to Culbertson for the funeral and back.

Dad happened to be visiting us in McCook at the time and offered his car for some of the military men. Gen. Eisenhart was highly respected and apparently knew everyone in the Air Force. There was an impressive number of high power military dignitaries at his funeral. As it happened, we only had car transportation for general officers. Everyone else, of the rank of Colonel and below, had to ride on one of the buses we had borrowed from the Job Corps.

In Dad's group was Gen. Earle Wheeler, who was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the time (during the Vietnam War) -- a very powerful position. He and Dad apparently hit it off well. When we got to the Elk's Club for lunch I searched out Dad, who was sitting at a table with four generals. I told him that he could join Mike and me at our table in another part of the room. Naturally, I assumed that the general officers had important business to discuss and needed their privacy. "Nonsense," said Gen. Wheeler.

"Walter is going to eat with us. I want to hear more about that Charlois-Angus cross of cattle." How Dad had managed to tell those fellows about Plainview and his farm and cattle on a three minute drive from the airport to the Elks' Club was more than I could comprehend. Later Dad told me that the general had a little farm where he would retire someday and was planning to raise some cattle. "He's a real nice fellow," said Dad. "He wants to learn about cattle. I invited him to Plainview for a visit. Of course our landing strip in Plainview is too short for his big plane, so he'll have to land in Norfolk, but that's OK, I can pick him up there." He had no doubt that Gen. Wheeler would come to Plainview for a visit, and Dad would give him a royal Plainview welcome (and a tour of "the farm"). Unfortunately, Gen. Wheeler never got to retire to his little farm, or come to Plainview. He died unexpectedly, of a heart attack, in 1975. He was 67 years old.